


Alive

by Proudtobeatheatrekid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Reichenbach return, The Adventure of the Dancing Men, The Adventure of the Gloria Scott, The Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proudtobeatheatrekid/pseuds/Proudtobeatheatrekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of Sherlock's fall, John starts seeing his ghost. But is it really a ghost? JohnLock, MyStrade. Includes adapted versions of ACD Stories The Empty House, The Adventure of the Gloria Scott, and The Adventure of the Dancing men. </p><p>TW: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

John was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the two cups of tea that he had made. He just couldn’t break the habit of making two cups of tea, even though there had been no one to have tea with for a year. He had been staring at the mugs for fifteen minutes, unmoving, when he heard a door open. 

“Go away, Mrs. Hudson. I’m fine” he called.

”John. It’s me,” said Sherlock.

Sherlock. “I made you tea” John replied, calmly resigning to Sherlock being there.

The rest of that day was spent sitting in his armchair looking at Sherlock. It felt odd to be back in his own armchair. He’d been sitting in Sherlock’s (he still thought of it that way) since the fall exactly a year ago today. 

Sherlock was saying something. Apologizing. But John wasn’t listening. He couldn’t listen. He was just reveling in Sherlock. He just sat there and stared at Sherlock.

Soon, John got used to Sherlock wandering around him. Sherlock tended not to eat and often disappeared for days. Just like he used to. John had taken to talking to Sherlock, telling him about his life since Sherlock had died. How horrible it was. How much John missed him.

* * *

About a month after Sherlock had first appeared, Lestrade showed up. John answered the door and greeted him.

“Would you like some tea?”

“I’d love some, John,” Lestrade responded, sitting down at the table in the kitchen and watching John make the tea. “How are you coping?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Greg,” John said resistantly. Why had Greg shown up _now?_ He was going to make John go to a mental hospital.

“John- I know your life has changed so much, I just want to make sure that you-“

“I’m _fine_!” John shouted at him, angrily adding milk to the tea.

The Scotland Yard detective sighed, a bit taken aback, and moved into the living room, stopping in front of Sherlock’s armchair and saying “Sherlock, come on. Have you made progress on that case I gave you?”

That was when John dropped the mugs he was carrying. They shattered on the floor while he turned and stared, gaping at Lestrade. “You can see him too?” he asked.


	2. Alive

“John!” shouted Sherlock, startled that tea had been dropped. He ran into the kitchen where John had now collapsed on the floor against a cabinet. “John, are you alright?”

“Greg,” said John, ignoring him. Why was John ignoring him? “Greg, why did you talk to Sherlock?”

“Why wouldn’t I talk to Sherlock, John?” asked Lestrade, he seemed concerned too. 

“Because he’s dead,” John said. Sherlock’s head snapped back to look at his flatmate in shock.

Lestrade nodded and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, forcing him to stand from where he had been kneeling to help John. “Sherlock, he thinks he’s delusional,” He whispered.

“He is!” Sherlock almost shouted.

“Sherlock! Please. Will you just leave for an hour? I think it’s best if you’re not here when he finds out.”

“Why not? Won’t he be happy?”

“Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me he was acting odd?”

“I thought he was just a bit mad at me.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade rolled his eyes and sighed. “Please. Just go.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock shortly, and decided to go visit Molly and see if she had any autopsies she needed help with.

* * *

“John?” asked Greg, kneeling down where Sherlock had been moments before. “John, Let’s go sit down,” Greg pulled him up and led him into the sitting room, helping him sit in his own armchair. Greg then went back into the kitchen to get a chair to sit in, pulling it up to John’s chair.

“Why didn’t you just sit in the other armchair?” asked John.

“John,” Greg asked, not answering John’s question, “Have you been seeing Sherlock?”

John sighed. He might as well tell Greg. Especially if Greg had seen him too. “Since the anniversary,” John confessed.

“Ah,” said Greg, understanding. John thought that he had felt so much grief on the anniversary of Sherlock’s death that his brain had manifested Sherlock to keep him company. “John, Sherlock’s real.”

“I KNOW SHERLOCK’S BLOODY REAL!” John yelled, almost getting up. “WHY DO YOU THINK I’M THIS DEPRESSED? YOU WOULDN’T LISTEN WHEN I TOLD YOU HE WASN’T A FRAUD AND NOW HE’S DEAD AND I’M ALONE.”

Lestrade backed off a little, surprised by John’s outburst. “John, he’s not a fraud.”

“ _NOW_ YOU LISTEN. NOW THAT IT’S TOO LATE AND HE’S DEAD. HE’S DEAD, GREG. HE JUMPED OFF A BUILDING. HE JUMPED OFF A FUCKING BUILDING BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT HE WAS ORDINARY.”

“No. John, no. He’s not dead,” Lestrade grabbed John’s shoulders forcefully, “Yes, I thought he was a fraud. But that’s not why he jumped,” John tried to wriggle out of Lestrade’s grip, “John, Moriarty was on that building too,” John stopped wriggling and froze. “He had snipers. He had three snipers set to kill me, Mrs. Hudson, and you unless Sherlock jumped. It was the only thing he could do.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?” John asked, in shock again, “He called me. I saw him. Why would he torture me like that? He made me watch him fall. He made me watch him die.”

“I know, John. He still hasn’t explained the whole thing to me. But he faked it. He didn’t really fall. The Sherlock you’ve been seeing this month? He’s real, John. It’s the real Sherlock. Haven’t you noticed his stuff returning?”

“Sherlock,” John said, beginning to stare at the armchair across from his. Sherlock’s chair. He barely noticed when Lestrade got up. put his chair away, and left the flat. He barely noticed when Sherlock came back in and stood next to him.

“John?” asked a deep voice.

John blinked, snapping out of his trance and asking, “Is it true? You’re not a delusion?”

“I never was, John. Why would you think that?” Sherlock said, kneeling next to John’s chair and taking his hand. “John- do you want me to leave so you can process-“

“NO,” interrupted John, holding Sherlock’s hand in a vice grip. “Don’t leave again.”

“I won’t, John,” promised Sherlock. “John, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I needed to save you.”

“Well, you didn’t,” said John.

“Yes, I did, John. I did. I stayed away to make sure no one else hurt you. There’s only two of Moriarty’s men left, John. And I couldn’t stay away from you. I had to see for myself you were fine, and you are!”

“No, Sherlock. No, I’m not. Did Lestrade tell you about the first month you were gone?”

“No,” said Sherlock, worried.

“He took away my gun. Did you notice that there’s no pain medication in the flat either?”

“I didn’t, I-“

“I tried to join you, Sherlock. Twice,” John choked out, “I would’ve tried more but Greg took my gun away.”

“John” Sherlock gasped in horror, getting up and pulling John forward in his armchair to wrap him in a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You told me so much about what you’d been doing, but you didn’t say-“

“Of course not. Who wants to talk about their attempted suicides? Even to a figment of their imagination.”

“John, I’m not a-“

”I know you’re real, Sherlock. You’re hugging me. You’re practically crushing me.”

“Sorry,” said Sherlock quickly, backing off and sitting in his own armchair.

The two of them just sat staring at each other.

* * *

“They’re just staring at each other. I think we’re fine, Mycroft. No intervening needed,” he stood up to leave

“Greg, wait,” said the embodyment of the British government, grabbing his wrist. “Thank you for helping my brother.”

“Why wouldn’t I help your brother?”

“I don’t know, because you didn’t have to.”

Lestrade smiled and planted a kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Yes I did,” then left, calling “I have to get back to work.”

Mycroft smiled, thought for a moment, then turned off the screen that was showing the two men in their sitting room.


	3. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Fairly in-depth discussions of suicide

“I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Likewise.”

“God, Sherlock. You’re exactly the same. No sentiment.”

“I staged my own death to save you.”

“Also Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

“For you,” Sherlock repeated.

John sighed. “Tea?” he asked, standing up.

“I’ll make it.”

John froze and stared at Sherlock, who laughed. 

“I’ve been cleaning up after you for a month, John, and you didn’t notice.”

John said, “Oh- there’s broken-“

“I cleaned it up. Sit down. I’ll bring you tea.”

“No sugar.”

“I know.”

Eventually, John went into the kitchen anyway. He stopped in the doorway and watched Sherlock.

“Is something wrong?” asked Sherlock.

“It’s just- you’re here. You’re back. You’re- making tea.”

Sherlock glanced over, handing him a mug full of hot tea. As John wrapped his hand around the handle, their hands brushed and John closed his eyes. 

John smiled at Sherlock and took a sip of the tea. Which he promptly spit all over Sherlock. “I think I’ll continue making the tea,” John spluttered.

“What? Is it bad?” Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically concerned.

“Is there even any milk in here?” asked John.

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaimed, hitting his forehead with his palm as if he had just come up with a genius idea, turning around and starting to rummage through cabinets.

John put down his tea (which he would later add milk to and drink) and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, effectively stopping him ransacking the kitchen for milk. “Sherlock, it’s fine. I’ll- I’ll teach you. And the milk’s in the fridge.”

* * *

“This is strange,” remarked Mycroft Holmes, watching the closed circuit of his brother’s flat.

“What, because your brother’s happy?” Asked Gregory Lestrade, who had been silently standing in the doorway.

“I’m not sure,” Mycroft turned away from the screen, “Greg,” he greeted, “How are you?”

“Still no cases good enough for Sherlock,” Greg admitted, hugging his partner.

“We’ll find something,” promised Mycroft into the hug.

“Mycroft?” asked Greg, still hugging his partner.

“Hmm?” asked the ginger, contentedly.

“I think Sherlock’s found one of your cameras,” this statement stopped the hug abruptly and had Mycroft nearly tossing Greg out of the way to look at the screen, where his brother had written a note and propped it up in full view of the camera. It read “Thanks for no sound. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Be ready.”

Mycroft groaned, “He’s coming here. You probably won’t want to be here for this. Sherlock doesn’t like being spied on. Even if it’s for his own good.”

Greg nodded and walked out the door. Mycroft sighed as he watched him go, but was surprised when no more than five seconds after Greg left, Sherlock walked in.

“Hello, Brother dear.”

“Hello.”

“I know it was for my own good.”

“Do you now?”

“I would still like it to be taken away.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can look after John myself.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock-“ 

“I _can_ , Mycroft. He’s getting better. I’m helping him.”

“What happens when Lestrade finds you a case and you abandon him?”

“That won’t happen” sneered the younger of the brothers.

“No, Sherlock. Of course it won’t. I won’t let it,” Mycroft was getting angry now, “I know you. I know you better than he does. And maybe I know him better than you do. Because if you leave again, it won’t hurt only you.”

Sherlock sat in a chair at those words, “He told me,” the man said sadly after a silence.

Mycroft sighed. Neither man was very angry anymore, just sad.

“How far did he get?”

“No, Sherlock. You do not need to know this.”

“Yes, I do. I did it. _I_ did it to him. I made him-“

“Exactly. You do not need to know. You just need to know that he tried. You need to know how much you affect him. He needs you, Sherlock.”

“Please thank your lackey for removing John’s gun. I appreciate it.”

“My _what?_ ” asked Mycroft.

“Your Lackey. Gregory Lestrade. Or, I’m sorry, is he something more to you? Because it’s obvious you’re having sex. A thought which, frankly, I would prefer to delete. But still, I’m thankful you took action.”

“It was his idea. He is friends with John, too.”

“Obviously not good enough friends, or he would have noticed earlier.”

“John forced us to remove the cameras. All of them. The only reason we knew was that we left a monitor in his gun drawer, because we knew that if he opened that there was danger. So every time he opened it, we came.”

“How many times did that happen?”

“The first time, I ran into his room to find him with the gun to his mouth. He was about to shoot. I startled him, he missed. Bullet went through his cheek. He spent a week in hospital. Fortunately, he didn’t hit any nerves, so there’s no lasting damage, just a scar. And not only a physical scar.”

Sherlock was staring at his brother. “That-“ he couldn’t form words with his mouth. “Is that true?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Sherlock stared up at his brother, and promptly stood up and turned around to walk out the door. Before he left, though, he said, “Would you and your lackey check on Baker Street for unwanted patrols? Maybe in the house across the street. I believe it belongs to a Mr. Camden. There’s someone watching us. I don’t want John to know. He’s too unstable,” and with that, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

Mycroft Holmes found himself calling his contacts to check on a house on Baker Street to which he had never been.


	4. The Empty House

“Sherlock, the house is clear,” Mycroft sighed, bursting through the door of 221B.

“Someone is watching me. Sebastian Moran is watching me. I’m sure of that.”

“Well, he’s not watching you from the house across the street.”

“He has been in the house,” Sherlock assured himself, “He is clever, though. He knows that I’m watching him back. I just can’t find him,” Sherlock beat his palm against his forehead in frustration.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, “Sherlock, you know that Sebastian Moran is-“

“An assasin. Yes. I’m aware,” said Sherlock. 

“Don’t get killed again,” said Mycroft, sighing.

“I don’t intend to,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock, John would not be able to handle that,” said Mycroft, “If you care at all, which I’m not sure you do.”

“I do. I assure you, I do.”

“Maybe you should tell John.”

“What will that help? He’s angry at me, Mycroft. Wouldn’t that just make him more angry?” asked Sherlock, sitting in the chair across from Mycroft.

“Tell him why you came back. Sherlock, he’s not angry at you for coming back; he’s angry at you for leaving. If you apologize for leaving and explain that you couldn’t stay away, he might be more likely to forgive you,” sighed Mycroft, unused to giving anyone relationship advice.

“What if it doesn’t help?”

“It will.”

“What if Moran kills John?”

“He won’t. You won’t let him.”

“Mycroft, he has an airgun. We haven’t been able to find him. Us! Mycroft, The Holmeses. We can’t find him. He’s good!”

“We’re better,” assured Mycroft. “We can throw him off.”

“How will we do that?” asked Sherlock.

“Distract him?” suggested Mycroft.

“Distract him?” scoffed Sherlock, “He’s a professional.”

“So are we,” said Mycroft.

“Hardly,” scoffed Sherlock, “We would need a decoy, and I doubt anything will distract him from taking revenge on the man who killed his employer.”

“A decoy?” asked Mycroft.

“It has to fool him,” said Sherlock.

“So someone dressed like you? Someone who looks like you? We could plant someone on Baker Street-“

“That wouldn’t fool him. It’s too obvious. He would be able to see the face, even if it was in shadow. In shadow!” exclaimed Sherlock, “That’s it! That’s what we should do.”

“What?” asked Mycroft, confused.

“We make a shadow!” cried Sherlock loudly.

“Oh, so you’d like to wake up John,” said Mycroft sarcastically, “Or did you forget he’s upstairs?”

Sherlock quieted quickly, “We light a silhouette in this window,” he pointed to the window of the sitting room, “and Moran will think I’m here!”

“It would have to be a figure. A bust or something.”

“A bust! And I could move it every so often to increase the illusion!”

“No,” said Mycroft sharply, drawing Sherlock back from his scheming, “You would get John out of the flat. I assume you would not want him to be in danger?”

Sherlock froze, “What excuse would I use?”

“Any excuse would do, I’m sure,” said Mycroft.

“Mycroft, John hasn’t left the flat in over a year. Lestrade! Could Lestrade think of something?”

“Lestrade will be busy with me,” said Mycroft, eliciting an eyebrow quirk from Sherlock, “Not like that,” Mycroft sighed, “We will be finding Moran. If he thinks you are in the flat, he is bound to be somewhere near.”

“Ah, yes. I wish you and the Inspector luck on your endeavors. Please have the finished bust delivered here,” Sherlock dismissed.

“I have to find-“

“You have more connections do you not? Thank you, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, and Mycroft sighed, picked up his ever-present umbrella, and glided out the door.

“Sherlock?” called a sleepy voice from the stairs, “Was that Mycroft?”

“Good morning, John,” said Sherlock, not moving or looking away from the window at which he had been staring since Mycroft had left, “Yes. He has just, thankfully, left.”

* * *

“I made you tea,” John said as Sherlock walked in the door.

“Thank you,” responded Sherlock curlty, taking a detour by the table to pick up the mug before going to stare out the window.

“Is there something wrong in the house across the street?” asked John from the table. Sherlock hadn’t realized that John had been watching him.

“No, no. Of course not.”

“Right, Sherlock,” responded John, obviously unconvinced. “Of course it’s nothing. Why would you start telling me the truth now? There’s no reason to. You just lied to me for a year straight and you expect me to buy that?” 

“John, please don’t be bitter.”

“I WILL BE BITTER IF I WANT TO.”

“John. Please,” Sherlock almost whimpered.

“WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING AT?” John towered over Sherlock, who was sitting in a chair. 

“It’s not in the house across the street. I’ve just been making sure no one’s in there. But there has been a man watching us for the last month from the street. I believe he goes by the name of Parker. I didn’t want to alarm you. I have Mycroft dealing with it,” Sherlock relented.

“Is it danger?”

“Could be. But you are not getting involved.”

“Sherlock, I’m fine.”

“I know. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“If I don’t go, how will I know if _you_ get hurt?”

”I don’t plan to get hurt.”

“And how can you plan that?”

“Simple, John. I’m not planning on getting involved. It’s much safer if Mycroft’s people handle it. And they can. I’ve been away from you long enough. I’m not going away again.”

John looked shocked. “You’re not going?” he asked, disbelieving.

“No. Not yet, at least. I want to stay with you, John. I’m sorry I was away so long. I’m sorry I drove you to do things-“

“Sherlock, stop. It’s really disconcerting to hear you apologize.”

“I thought you would want me to”

“I do- I did. But It’s still weird to hear.”

“I see.”

“I accept your apology,” John said, “and thanks for caring.”

“Well, you obviously cared about me.”

“I thought caring wasn’t an advantage.”

“Not in our case.”

“What do you mean?”

“John, I-“ Sherlock paused, nervous, “John, I care about you.”

“I care about you too,” responded John, a bit confused.

“No. John, I _care_ about you.”

“You just said that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, for-“ 

_‘Did I really just get kissed by Sherlock Holmes?’_ Thought John, shocked. _‘Did Sherlock Holmes just kiss me? Did Sherlock Holmes just say that caring was an advantage? Did he- Was he saying-?’_ And that was when John H. Watson leaned forward, towards the man who was looking down at his lap in embarassment, and kissed him back.


	5. Silhouettes

“I thought you were married to your work?” asked John.

“I just said that to throw you off,” replied Sherlock dismissively. Then, noticing John’s face, he added, “I now regret that.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I always thought that I was asexual.”

“And that changed?”

“The concept of sex simply seemed unnecessary; frivolous to me. Until I met you. Sex with you seems… bearable. Sometimes- necessary to live.”

“Then how have you been alive for the last year?” John joked. 

Sherlock’s face suddenly became stony. “John-“

“No. No, I didn’t mean to- I was teasing- Sherlock. Please don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t think about it? John, I almost killed you!”

“You didn’t almost kill me. I did that myself.”

“Because of me,” Sherlock said, standing up and beginning to pace the sitting room.

“Sherlock,” John said, burying his face in his hands.

Sherlock looked over, confused by the muffledness of John’s voice. He immediately stopped pacing and sat back down near John. “I’m Sorry,” he muttered, steepling his hands under his chin.

They both just sat there for a while, until John, still with his face in his hands, said “I haven’t completely forgiven you, you know.”

“I’m aware,” replied Sherlock stonily, “I don’t blame you. I only hope you have forgiven me enough to tolerate me, though.”

“Sherlock-” John sighed, finally lifting his face out of his hands.

”I’m quite difficult to tolerate.”

John started laughing, “Of course I’ll tolerate you.”

Sherlock smiled and grabbed his violin to fiddle out some stress.

* * *

“John,” Sherlock shook him, waking him up from one of his seldom reached REM sleeps.

“Sherlock? Why’re you in my room?” asked John, his voice slurring from sleep.

“I need to show you something!” Sherlock said excitedly.

“What time is it?” John asked, Rolling over.

“Three,” said Sherlock Matter-of-factly.

“I slept that long?”

“Apparently,” said Sherlock, and walked out of the room.

John sighed, then sat up in bed to begin the process of waking up that he still dreaded. Had he really slept until three in the afternoon? It didn’t feel like that long. He drudged into the bathroom without opening his blinds, a habit he had begun after Sherlock had- Anyways, John had just felt like staying in the dark. 

After John had Showered and gotten dressed, he went downstairs to see what Sherlock was so excited about. Upon reaching the sitting room, he noticed that the sky was dark. “Wait. Is it 3 AM?” he asked Sherlock, who was standing impatiently by the door with his coat and scarf on.

“Yes. I told you it was.”

“I thought you meant 3pm.”

“Ah. Do you normally sleep until the afternoon?”

“Where are we going?” John changed the subject, angrily putting on his coat since they were obviously leaving the house. “You know this’ll be the first time I’ve left the flat since the funeral?” he pointed out, then immediately regretted it. The wound still seemed fresh, even though it had been a false wound.

“Across the street,” said Sherlock.

“What?” asked John,, figuring that somewhere in there was a purpose, and Sherlock seemed quite excited about whatever it was they were doing. He might as well go along with it.

The two crossed the street, John not moving nearly as fast as Sherlock wanted him to, his limp seemed to have returned while Sherlock was away. 

They finally reached the front door of a house John had never seen anyone enter. “Where are we?” John asked.

“Really, John. We only crossed Baker street. We’re obviously at the house of old Mr. Camden who died five years ago and nobody has lived in the house since. Not sure why, really. It’s a perfectly normal house. Something about not having cleaned the blood off the walls, I suppose,” Sherlock shook his head, looking up from picking the lock and, to John’s surprise, pushing the door open without looking.

Creeping into the house, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, since it was pitch black and he couldn’t see anything. “Can we turn on a light?” he asked.

“No!” Sherlock warned, turning his head, “We have to be silent.”

“Oh,” John said, disappointed. But his disappointment was not permitted to live long as he was pulled into a room off the long hallway they were walking down. “Sherlock, what are we doing here?” he whispered.

Sherlock just led him to the window and pointed up at where John could see 221 across the way. His eye naturally drifted to the window of the sitting room in 221B, where he could see the shadow of Sherlock contemplating a case. 

John turned to his right and saw Sherlock. He looked back to 221B. Then back at the man standing next to him, who was now grinning.

“Sherlock?” John asked, “What did you do? While you were-“ John stopped because he didn’t want to say the word ‘dead’.

“I travelled the continent. Europe, Asia. Went by the name of Sigerson.”

“Huh,” sighed John. “Why’d you come back?”

“I missed you, John,” said Sherlock.

“No, you didn’t. There’s another reason.”

“John, did I not convey my feelings adequately?”

“Sherlock, you are a machine. You have always been a machine. You focus on crime. You don’t feel human sentiment like missing someone!”

“John-“

“You don’t! And please stop playing with my emotions, because, unlike you, I do have them. And you broke them. You broke me. You broke me into tiny little pieces that no one could find, not even me! And now you’re coming back and there’s still so many little bits of me that are missing but you don’t seem to realize that. You just keep going. You-“ John stopped. He was getting himself worked up. “Why did you kiss me?” he asked.

“Because you were not understanding the message I was trying to convey.”

“And what was the message?”

“That- That I do feel sentiment. Especially towards you. John, I did miss you. More than I can say. You are my friend. My only friend. You are the only person I want to see each day! And being away from you for a whole year? John, I-“

“Why did you really come back? It wasn’t just for me. Sherlock, nothing you can say will make me believe you came back just to see me. If that was the reason, you would have come back when you knew how horribly I was doing without you. You had to be in contact with Mycroft. He would have told you.”

“Ronald Adair,” said Sherlock Holmes quietly.

“What?” asked John.

“Ronald Adair. He was murdered in his house on Park Lane. What looked like an expanding revolver bullet through his brain. Quite an interesting case.”

“Of course.”

“What?”

“Of course you came all the way back to London and RISKED YOUR LIFE for a case,” sighed John.

“It was a very important case. And I needed to see you.”

John sighed and looked up at 221B again, marveling at how clever his friend could be while at the same time being so ignorant. He noticed that the shadow was in a different position than when he had first seen it. How did he do that? Sherlock had been next to John the whole time! “It moved!” he exclaimed.

Sherlock laughed at the look John was giving him. “Mrs. Hudson has been moving it every 15 minutes, keeping in front of it so her shadow isn’t seen. Also, you might want this,” he handed John his old gun.

John stared at the black object in his friend’s hand. “No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Why not? WHY NOT? Sherlock. I- Does Lestrade know you have that?”

“No. He would only take it away again.”

“For good reason! Sherlock, I do not have enough control yet not to use that in- bad ways.”

“But I’m back!” Sherlock complained.

“That doesn’t magically fix everything! I still thought that you were dead for a year!”

“Thirteen months,” Sherlock corrected.

“Don’t remind me,” John sunk down below the window ledge, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, squatting to join him, “I want to help. How do I help?”

John sighed, “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “I don’t really know how to help myself.”

Suddenly, Sherlock put a hand on John’s knee, stopping him from talking. Then John heard it through the silence of the house. A lock clicking. A doorknob turning. Sherlock moved fast, pulling John into dark corner of the room that was even less lit than the rest. John felt something cold and metal pushed firmly into his hand as he was stuffed up in the corner very close to Sherlock.

All too soon, the footsteps that were coming down the hallway stopped in front of their room. John’s breath caught as he saw a silhouette appear, the small amount of light that was coming in from the window distinguishing a figure in the doorway and bouncing off his white hair and long moustache. John watched as the man walked toward the window then pulled something out of a duffle bag he had been carrying. The first thing John saw was a very long thin pipe. It was followed out of the bag by what it was attached to, which was definitely a gun. There was no doubt about that, even at this low light level. John’s breath caught in his throat, and Sherlock’s gloved hand gently covered his mouth. John would have been mad about that under many other circumstances, but he was still reveling in the fact that Sherlock was alive. He leaned back against Sherlock’s body, using the excuse of getting farther into the dark to justify it in his mind. Once the man had gotten the gun fully out of the bag, He propped it up against the window ledge, having opened the window a tiny bit. The tip of the tube was barely leaning out the window. It was unlikely anyone outside would have noticed it. The man then pulled another tube which was much thicker than the first one he had seen. As the man placed it on top of the gun and seemed to be attaching it somehow, John realized that it was a sight. His army background telling him that this must be a sniper. 

John barely heard the shot when it came. But he did hear the tinkling of broken glass. Sherlock’s hand came off his mouth, allowing him to follow his instinct and rush forward to wrestle the sniper to the ground and hit him on the head with the heavy instrument that happened to be in his hand. John knew in the back of his mind it was his gun and he could have shot it, but this seemed easier. Sure, he was exposing himself, but what was the likelihood that the man would overpower John Watson? Sherlock seemed to agree because he slowly unfolded himself from the corner and, with a smug look on his face, pulled out his phone and put it to his ear.

“I found him. Camden House. I’m sure even Anderson could figure out which room,” said Sherlock into the phone.

“Lestrade’s here?” asked John, still sitting on top of his victim. 

“Of course. Someone had to arrest him. Who else would it be?” Sherlock sidled over and picked up the gun that the sniper had been using and running his hand along it. “You can get up, John. Lestrade will be here soon. He’s just opening the door.”

And sure enough, John could hear the door click and what sounded like a herd of elephants coming down the hallway. John stood up just as they came barging through the doorway.

Barely looking up from the gun, Sherlock said, “You can turn on the light. The switch is right by the door,” and a chandelier came on, illuminating peeling wallpaper and scratched wooden floors. Lestrade was at the front, but behind him were at least five men with bulletproof jackets and guns out. “This is an air rifle, specially comissioned by Moriarty before he died. I knew it existed, but I didn’t know where it was. Until now. It takes old-style revolver bullets. They expand. Also nobody suspects an air gun,” Sherlock finally looked up from the gun, saying “Oh, and that’s Sebastian Moran. Old comrade of Moriarty’s. Quite high up on the food chain, actually,” Said Sherlock. “John, are you alright?” asked Sherlock, sidling over to him and standing next to him.

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” said John as Lestrade motioned for his men to put handcuffs on the man who was stirring on the floor, “Apparently I didn’t get a very good hit in on his head, though.”

“You had quite a rage there.”

“He did try to kill you.”

“I’m touched that you’re so protective of me,” said Sherlock, then, without pause, turned to Lestrade and asked, “What will you charge him with?”

“Well, the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes!” said Lestrade as if It was obvious. John seemed to be of the same mindset if the look he was giving Sherlock was any indication. 

“Oh, no. I don’t think you will. I would appreciate it if my name stayed out of the papers for the time being,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly. “You may want to charge him with the murder of Ronald Adair.”

“What?” asked Lestrade, “You told me that case didn’t interest you!”

“I lied,” said Sherlock shortly. “Although it was quite obvious.”

“Not to me it wasn’t!”shouted Lestrade. “How was this man involved?”

“Simple. Moran was Adair’s partner in poker. The two were both quite good. Adair found out that Moran had been cheating, cornered him, threatened to tell, then went home and tried to figure out how much money he should return because of the cheating. Moran did the natural thing: broke out the air gun his old boss had given him and shot Adair through the open window on the second floor of the house across the street,” Sherlock explained.

“Alright, then. Sebastian Moran, you are under arrest for the murder of Ronald Adair,” said Lestrade.

“You fiend. You clever, clever fiend!” muttered Moran as he was led out by Scotland Yard.

Soon enough, John and Sherlock stood alone in the room again. Sherlock drifted over to the window, looking up at the broken window of 221B. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I didn’t think he would come in here. I figured he would work from the street.”

John joined him at the window, then said, “No matter. Shouldn’t we check in on Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s fine. But I’d like to see how Moran’s aim is,” said Sherlock, and turned to walk out of the room.

“Sherlock?” John stopped him halfway to the door and caught up, “Don’t apologize for danger,” he said, passing his friend and walking out the doorway.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room for another second, a large smile breaking out on his face before he continued to follow John.

* * *

“Oh, there you are, boys,” said Mrs. Hudson as the two came in the door.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. You are wonderful!” said Sherlock, “Has Mycroft stopped in by any chance?”

“No, dear,” replied Mrs. Hudson.

“Ah. Probably off with Lestrade. You weren’t in the room when the shot came, were you?” he asked.

“Oh, no, dear. But I did find the bullet on the floor afterwards. Picked up the casing myself!” Mrs. Hudson turned to walk up the stairs that were in the hallway. “I’ll show you where it was,” she said, tempting Sherlock and John to follow her. When they got to the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson kept leading, through the door and into the sitting room, where she pointed to a small mark on the wall. 

It took John a few seconds to see the mark, but in those few seconds Sherlock had run to it and was running his finger over it, examining it, turning back to look at the Wax bust of himself that had been carved beautifully, recreating every detail of his face. John stared at it. Who had carved that? He walked over to it and touched it, almost checking to see if it had warm skin. John found himself wondering if Sherlock’s skin was warm. He realized that he had never actually touched Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock had always been wearing gloves. Was his skin warm? John deperately wanted to find out.

“John?” asked Sherlock, “what are you doing?”

“Oh,” said John, snapping out of his daze, “Uh. Looking for a bullet hole,” John said hurriedly, “It must have passed through this. I doubt Moriarty would have hired someone without exquisite aim.”

“A good assumption,” Said Sherlock, looking at John queerly, as if he suspected something, “Moran does in fact have, as you say, ‘exquisite’ aim. The bullet went straight through my brain.”

John winced, “Please don’t- please don’t say that,” he muttered. Sherlock, of course, heard it and gave John an apologetic look. 


	6. Sherlock's University Days

After the bust was thrown away and the wall scrubbed, John sat down in his armchair again. Sherlock watched him and cautiously sat in his own armchair across from him. John looked around himself. Everything seemed perfect. It all seemed neat, even though there were piles of paper stacked on the kitchen table and a microscope and dismembered body parts in the fridge. It just seemed _right._ John was noticing everything again. The bookshelf that hadn’t caught his eye for over a year but still contained countless notebooks full of Sherlock’s notes on almost every criminal he had caught. The fifty year old newspapers littering the storage shelf under the coffee table. All the things he had been sidling around because he hadn’t wanted to face them, he hadn’t wanted to see them, hadn’t wanted to remember. For over a year he had tried to avoid thinking about a time when Sherlock was alive and happy. It hurt too much. But now, now Sherlock _was_ alive and happy. In the present. It wasn’t remembering. And it didn’t hurt. And John smiled. He looked up at Sherlock so that he could see the man’s face. And John smiled more. And John’s smiling made Sherlock smile. And in that moment, John knew that it would be okay because Sherlock wasn’t going to leave again. Because John wasn’t going to let him. John was never going to let Sherlock slip through his fingers again. He couldn’t. There was no possible way that John could live without Sherlock again. Nobody else understood what it was like to have someone who saw your flaws and forgave them. Saw all of them. Did Sherlock have any flaws? Was there any way John would ever find them? John wanted to. He wanted to find out all of Sherlock Holmes’ flaws.

* * *

“John?” Sherlock said the next evening, “Are you glad I’m here again?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” John said, putting down the book he had been reading, “I feel like I don’t know you. I feel like I’m not important to you.”

“When I was in university-” Sherlock began.

“What university did you go to? I don’t even know that!” cried John in exasperation.

“That’s not important John. When I was in university I had a friend.”

“You had a friend in university?”

“Only one. His name was Victor Trevor. We met when his dog’s tongue was frozen to my hand. It was an odd way to meet, yes. But I seem to meet all my friends in odd ways.”

“Your friends being?” John asked.

“Victor and you,” said Sherlock, “But I am no longer in touch with Victor. I haven’t been since we graduated. He went through a bad time after his father died. That’s the story I’d like to tell you.”

“Why?” asked John, becoming slightly suspicious.

“Because you feel as if you don’t know me. I wasn’t always interested in crime, you know,” said Sherlock.

“You weren’t?” asked John, who was genuinely surprised. He had assumed that Sherlock had always paid attention to the news. He had imagined a tiny Sherlock listening at the door as his father watched the nightly news. Had that not happened?

“No. Well, I always knew about it, but I wasn’t interested in preventing it until university. Until my first case.”

“Your first case?” John asked.

“Yes, my first case. Victor was almost as unsocial as I, and one summer he invited me up to his house in Norfolk for a couple weeks to stay. His father was a widower. At that time I was already honing my skills of deduction. That I _have_ always been interested in. Anyways, at the first dinner, Victor was telling his father about me and about how I had this hobby of deducing facts about people, and his father asked me what I could tell about him. I, of course, listed off a number of facts, including that he had been a boxer and that he had been very afraid of something in the last year. He didn’t react well to that. I had simply noticed that he had a new cane. A very nice one. Not worn enough to be more than a year old. He had also had lead poured into the tip, so he obviously wanted some sort of defense against something. Simple deductions. Anyways, it scared him. Quite a bit, actually. He was wary of me the rest of the time I was there.”

“You’ve never had tact, then,” John said, rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s story.

Sherlock ignored John’s comment and went on, “That Wednesday, I had arrived on a Monday evening, a man arrived-“

“You remember the days of the week?” scoffed John.

“Of course. A man arrived at the door, and Mr. Trevor, who had seemed fairly at ease before that point, became very guarded as he greeted the man, ‘Hudson?’ he asked, ‘Is that you?’ and he heartily shook the man’s hand. The man asked if he had any spare rooms available, as Hudson was apparently between homes. Mr. Trevor assured him that he did, then asked how Hudson had known where he was, to which Hudson responded ‘I know where all my old friends are!’ well the man came in, Mr. Trevor introduced him to both Victor and me, and told us to please be kind to him as he was an old friend. Well, the next morning we found Hudson passed out on the couch in the sitting room. He had obviously drunk too much. But this was a trend that persisted through the nights, and both Victor and I began to understand why this man was between homes. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and decided to return to my flat in London after one week instead of the two that we had planned. His father was acting very strange and giving the man whatever he wanted even if it was outrageous.”

“Something seems wrong there.”

“I’m getting to that, John,” Sherlock assured, “Victor emailed me during the next week saying that Hudson was still there and was taking advantage of his father, and had even begun to sleep in his father’s room, forcing his father to sleep in the guest room. Victor continued on to tell me that the man must have been the devil, because Victor once cornered him on his faults and told him to sleep in the guest room because he was a guest and he should be grateful for what he got, and then Mr. Trevor had intervened and scolded Victor for this, then locked himself in his office all day. The next morning, Hudson had gathered his luggage and told them he was tired of Norfolk and was going to see a Mr. Beddoes in Hampshire. Victor then asked me to come back up to Norfolk, please, as his father had been admitted to the hospital in a coma the previous day. I, of course, took the train up to Norfolk to see him. When I got there he met me at the station and told me that his father had received a letter that seemed to have shocked him into a coma. Unfortunately, when we got back to the hospital, Mr. Trevor had passed away, apparently having gained consciousness for an instant before death.”

“It’s good you were there for your friend, then,” interrupted John.

“I suppose. It was strange, though. A letter killing someone. Especially a letter such as this.”

“What did it say?” asked John, who figured Sherlock knew.

”It said, ‘the supply of game for London is going steadily up, Head- keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all orders for fly paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant’s life.’”

“What?” John asked, bewildered.

“That is what I thought. While Victor went up to deal with final wishes and such, I sat in the waiting room with this note, and immediately started thinking about how it could have a secret message encrypted in it.”

“Did it?” asked John, now very engaged in the story.

“Of course. Every third word. ‘The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.’ “ Sherlock said. “I told Victor this when he came back, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He was holding papers with a dazed look on his face.”

“Oh, no. Sherlock, did you-“ John muttered.

“I took the papers-“

“Sherlock!” John yelled.

“What?” Sherlock said, surprised at the outburst.

“You insensitive fool! He was in mourning because his father died-“

“Well of course he was. He didn’t want to read them himself!”

“You probably made it worse,” John sighed.

“Well, he seemed to be offering them to me. And he never complained.”

“Of course he didn’t, Sherlock. You practically solved his dad’s murder!”

“His father was not murdered,” said Sherlock.

John sighed, “And then you left him alone?”

“He was grieving. He needed to grieve. Isn’t it healthy to grieve?”

“Sure, a bit. But if you have a friend it’s kinda nice if they stop in and check on you. Or tell you that they’re really alive.”

“John,” Sherlock warned.

“I can see that clearly you’ve been doing this all your life and maybe I shouldn’t get attached to you again. Maybe I should leave before you do.”

“Please don’t,” said Sherlock quietly.

“Why shouldn’t I? Give me a good reason. Not a reason that doesn’t make sense to anyone besides you,” John almost-shouted.

"John," said Sherlock, "I hope you realize that I'm not leaving again. That I want to help you. Whatever your problems are."

"Sherlock, I don't think it's a good idea to say that," said John, sighing.

"Do you not want me to love you?" asks Sherlock, "because it certainly didn't seem possible to me either. I thought I wasn't capable of love. But once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. This is what remains, John."

"What, love?"

"It doesn't seem probable."

"No, it doesn't,” said John. "But you think it's true?"

"I think there's only one way to find out," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm not playing with your emotions. Or at least I'm not trying to. Maybe I’m playing with my own!” Sherlock seemed confused for once in his life, “John, you mean so much to me."

"Okay," said John after a long pause.

"Okay?" said Sherlock, disbelieving.

"Yeah."

"Oh.”

"You weren't expecting me to agree so quickly, were you?" John laughed.

"No, I suppose not."

"Well, I did."

"Would you like to hear the conclusion of the case?" asked Sherlock.

John laughed, "Tell me more about university. Not cases. Just you. In university."

“But that’s boring. Don’t you want to hear the end of the case?”

John kept laughing. “If you insist,” he said, and stepped out of the room to put down his mug of tea.

Sherlock, unfortunately, took this as a sign that John did not really want to hear the story, sighed, and picked up his violin. Propping it delicately under his chin, he curled his fingers into the shape required to play a ‘C’ and ran the bow along the selected string.

John, upon returning to the room, simply sat down in his armchair and picked up the newspaper, keeping an ear open for the music that Sherlock was playing. He’d never heard it before, but it was beautiful. John had gained a much better ear for violin while living with Sherlock, and it hadn’t gone away, in fact, it had helped him once or twice when he was at a low point. He’d put on Violin music from his computer, and he felt more like Sherlock was still there. Like his world hadn't ended. Like everything was okay. Like everything would be okay. Now, listening to the sound of actual Sherlock playing Violin right there. In the same room. Live. John thought about how lucky he had turned out. Sherlock hadn't died. John still felt the relief course through him every day, but no time more so than when Sherlock was sitting there playing his violin. When John knew that Sherlock would be his. Could be his. That Sherlock- dare he think it- loved him back.


	7. A Case and an Agreement

Sherlock Holmes sat at the table in 221B facing away from the large windows in the sitting room. If there were another person there, they may have remarked on the fact that Sherlock was outlined by the brilliant oranges and reds of the sunrise. However, the only other occupant of the flat was currently asleep, as it was five o’clock in the morning.

Sherlock had been trying to email Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard the details of the murder of Mr. Ronald Adair when he noticed that he had received an email. This was odd, as the entire world knew him as dead and he hadn’t received an email in over a year. He opened the email from a man named Hilton Cubitt, the subject of which was “Curious Graffiti” with a sigh, expecting it to be mundane and boring, however the first paragraph was “I thought I saw you on a train I was taking from Paris last month, and now I find myself in need of your assistance. I do not want to get the police involved. I also do not know if you are, in fact, alive. I am sending this to the email I found on your website, _The Science of Deduction_ , in the hopes that if you are alive you will read it and be able to help me.”

Intrigued, Sherlock continued reading the rest of the email, “My wife and I have been married just over a year. When I first met her, she told me that she had had some disagreeable aquaintances in the past and that she would prefer not to talk about them. I, of course, respected her wishes. But recently, I have become worried about her. It all started when she got a letter from America. I had gotten the mail that day, and her face turned white when she saw it. She read it and immediately threw it into the fire that we had in our living room. She did not mention it in the upcoming week and neither did I, respecting her decision to not tell me. However, the following Tuesday, I found a number of stick figures drawn in the pathway approaching our house. They were only drawn in chalk and washed off that evening when it rained. I mentioned them to my wife in passing Wednesday morning when we were both going to work- we carpool to work, as our offices are near each other- and she asked me to tell her sooner if it happened again. This afternoon, I found a paper stuffed into our mailbox that had the same figures on it. I showed it to my wife, and she immediately fainted. This was two hours ago. I have helped her recover and now am emailing you, for I am very worried about my wife. Please call me at your soonest convenience.”

Sherlock then retrieved his cell phone from the table next to him, where it had recently been used for trying to communicate with Lestrade, and dialed the number given at the end of the email.

“Hello?” said Sherlock impatiently when he heard the familiar click of the call being answered. He didn’t like phone calls, but this was a promising case, and the person obviously knew how to navigate twists and turns on a website, as he had found Sherlock’s email. 

“Who is this?” asked a cautious voice on the other line.

“Sherlock Holmes. You sent me an email and told me to call you. I’d like to take your case. Can you scan the paper you found and sent it to me?” said Sherlock curtly, “I will need to see them. Also, in the future I will contact you solely by email. Thank you,” The phone was then tossed onto the table, no longer connected to the client. Sherlock went back to browsing the internet.

* * *

“John?” asked Sherlock. “Did I ever tell you the end of my first case?”

“No,” John said sleepily. It was after midnight and he had just decided that he wanted to go to bed, “Can I go to bed?”

“Can I make an agreement with you?” Sherlock asked.

“Only if I agree,” John rebutted.

“Move down to my room. It’ll help your leg, which hasn’t been improving. And I have a much better mattress.”

“Sherlock, that’s not an agreement-“

“If I get you to kiss me. If I can break down your resolve not to kiss me. Move into my room.”

“How did you know I have a resolve not to kiss you?”

“It’s blatantly obvious, John.”

“I want to make sure you’re ready. I don’t want to move too fast. For either of us,” John warned.

“I already kissed you, though. It’s your turn,” said Sherlock.

“That’s not how it works. That didn’t count. We weren’t. We- I’m not going to kiss you, Sherlock. Yet,” said John, sighing.

“Okay,” said Sherlock quickly.

“Okay what?” John asked suspiciously.

“I want the challenge. I want to break down your resolve!” Sherlock smiled.

“I think that would defeat the purpose,” said John, “plus, I don’t really fancy the idea of you trying to arouse me in front of Lestrade.”

Sherlock’s smile fell suddenly, “What?”

“You were planning to do that, weren't you?” John confirmed.

“I-“ said Sherlock, “I- Probably.”

“Sherlock,” said John, sitting down again, “right before you kissed me. You were talking about how sex with me seemed… what was the word you used?”

“Bearable,” said Sherlock, who remembered every word of that conversation with John. He regretted many of them.

“What did you mean? I mean, I know you’re a virgin, but-“

“I’m not.”

“What?” asked John, looking up sharply.

“I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex. I just didn’t enjoy it all that much. It was actually not a pleasant experience at all.”

“Who did-“

“University, John. University. Everyone experiments in university.”

“Well, maybe with men-“

“You think I didn’t try that?”

“Oh. I-“

“John, I just have not found sex alluring. That doesn’t mean I won’t or I haven’t or I don’t want to. It’s not a drive for me. It’s a- It’s a way to show that I care. Or, it would be. If the opportunity presented itself.”

“I am not absorbing this,” said John.

Sherlock laughed. “I don’t know either,” he said, “But I won’t try to arouse you in public. Deal?”

“Deal,” agreed John.

“And if I break down your resolve and you kiss me, you’ll move into my bedroom?”

“If you break down my resolve without being sexual.”

“Of course!”

“Deal,” said John, figuring it wouldn’t happen. Sherlock Holmes may be crafty, but John Watson had withstood torture. He would not give in.

Both men went to their separate rooms, Sherlock’s first case once again forgotten.


	8. The Violin

“John, I need your help,” called Sherlock. John was making tea in the kitchen.

“What, Sherlock?” John asked impatiently.

“What do you make of these?” Sherlock turned his computer screen towards John, displaying a picture of lines of stick figures all in different positions.

“There’s a child in that house and he is displaying creativity,” said John, going back to the tea.

“The client doesn’t have a child,” said Sherlock, “and the drawings display a much greater steadiness of hand than a child could have. The lines are all perfectly straight and there are no eraser marks.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that,” sighed John, dipping the teabag into the mug to disperse the flavor.

“He has told me that the house across from his recently gained a lodger, and I am looking into it. Meanwhile, I’m trying to derive meaning from these.”

“Alright,” said John, “Whatever you say. I don’t see how that can be a secret code, but people are strange.”

Sherlock nodded and went back to his computer, occasionally writing things down on a pad of paper he had placed to the right of his keyboard.

* * *

“Sherlock, please just come down and help me out,” came Lestrade’s voice from the table. John stood confused for a moment, then realized that it must be Sherlock’s phone on speaker. Sherlock himself was sitting at his microscope seeming to not be listening to Lestrade.

“I don’t see why it is necessary for me to be there for the trial. I told you all of the details of the case,” said Sherlock, not removing his eye from the microscope. “Anyways, I’m busy,” John sighed and pulled out the bread, putting two pieces in the toaster.

“Sherlock, please,” begged Lestrade, “You know I can’t remember all the details!”

“Yeah,” piped up John, “Sherlock, you know that measly little Lestrade could never remember the details of any case. Remember that time-“

“Sherlock, please take me off speaker phone,” said Lestrade, who seemed to have not known that Sherlock was otherwise occupied. John laughed, and thrust the phone into Sherlock’s face so he had to take it.

“Has my brother taught you nothing about deduction? Or even retention?” snapped Sherlock into the phone once he had pulled his eyes off the microscope and leaned back in his chair.

John sighed, tuning out of the conversation, which Lestrade seemed to be winning, to finish making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Once finished, he sat at the table where Sherlock had gone back to the microscope after hanging up the phone, and started to eat.

Right as John was about to take his first bite, Sherlock interrupted him. “Victor’s father had written a letter.”

“What?” sighed John, putting the sandwich down.

“Entitled _‘Gloria Scott’_. Victor couldn’t bring himself to read it, so I did.”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock.”

“My first case, of course.”

“Sherlock, why-“ 

“I want you to know how it ended. Don’t you want everything to be resolved?”

“Sherlock, You’re should be at Scotland Yard. I thought Lestrade needed you for something.”

“He shouldn’t,” said Sherlock impatiently.

“But he does?”

“Yes.”

“So?” John prompted.

“Do you not want me here?”

“Sherlock, I would love for you to stay, but I think that for both of our sanities in the long run, it would be better if you took the case. Or at least found out about it. You’ll probably solve it in thirty seconds. You’ve been in the flat for three days straight.”

“I want to help you, so I’ve been wherever you are. I’ve been in the flat for three days straight, but so have you!”

“I’m not a hyperactive teenager with access to drugs,” John said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just go,” sighed John. And, for once, Sherlock listened, allowing John to go back to eating his sandwich.

* * *

Sherlock rested the neck of the instrument in the crook created by the curve of his hand. He sighed, dangling his right arm on the side of his body, the bow almost touching the ground. He sat, closing his hand gently around the neck of the instrument and turning it to rest the base on his knee. His other wrist flicked the bow up, resting his chin on the end. He tapped impatiently on his knee with the frog of the bow, and wondered what to play. The music wasn’t coming to him. It didn’t make sense. The music had always come to him. It just flowed. 

What was different now? John? No, he had been fine when he had first met John and through all the years he’d known him. Suddenly, the realization hit him. It _was_ John. What was different now was that he had confessed his feelings for John. He and John were- well, it didn’t quite seem like dating. They weren’t really doing anything. Except being nicer to each other and, he supposed, not denying that they were a couple. 

Sherlock thought about how the music came to him, how his feelings turned into song. He thought about how he just stood there and let the emotions flow into his fingers and hands, things he couldn’t put into words, he couldn’t explain in any way except music, and he didn’t know how to explain the music or how the music happened, it just did. All he had was the product. And he didn’t know how he got there. As a scientist, that was frustrating. How were you supposed to prove something or replicate results if all you had was the result? What were the solvents or solutes that made the solution? He could always figure it out. _Always_. He was Sherlock Holmes, for goodness’ sake! Why couldn’t he figure out how he made music?

Sherlock sighed and decided to just put the violin under his chin and see what happened. He started to play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons Concerto Number Two- Summer. He felt that the melancholy yet bright air would suit his mood well. He knew all four so well that he could let his mind wander while playing. They were in his muscle memory. He began playing it, the notes started sharp but quickly softened. He thought about what he had told John yesterday. He thought about how or whether he would ever be able to explain his feelings. He thought about how he felt about John. He thought about how he had felt when he had been away, slow and bored, repetitious but never the same, then when he had come back, he intended to finally relax back into life with John, but John had been broken and frantic and Sherlock didn’t know what to do. The notes of the concerto were matching up perfectly with the feelings Sherlock was thinking about, the fingers of his left hand in constant movement, quick bow strokes with his right. As he continued on into the notes calming down, he didn’t stop playing the frantic notes, he played different frantic notes that were trying to be calmer. He was thinking about how he felt so _safe_ around John, but John didn’t feel safe around him, and John was a danger to himself, and Sherlock didn’t know what to do, what to say. He knew what tact was, he knew why it was necessary, he just had never learned how to use it. How to have it. And now, when he desperately needed it, was he saying the right thing? Did John understand? Did John understand that by Sherlock telling him the first case he ever solved he was opening up, telling John about his life, things he had never told anyone else? The notes started slowing down as Sherlock thought about John, John, John. The frantic air died away as Sherlock realized that he didn’t want to hide from John, he wanted to open up, he didn’t know how to make John understand that, he-

“Sherlock? What are you playing?” asked John from the doorway, “I’ve never heard it before. It’s good.”

“It-“ said Sherlock, who had been abruptly pulled out of his thoughts, “It was Vivaldi’s four seasons,” he said, “Summer.”

“No it wasn’t,” said John, “I know Vivaldi’s Summer. It’s gorgeous. That wasn’t summer.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, “I suppose I got lost in my thoughts and made some mistakes.”

“They weren’t mistakes, Sherlock, they were- What were you thinking about?”

Sherlock thought for a moment about whether he should tell John what he was truly thinking about or if he should lie, “You. I was thinking about you,” Sherlock said bravely, surprising even himself.

“Me?” asked John.

“Yes,” assured Sherlock, “What you mean to me, how you make me feel. I- I couldn’t put it into words.”

“So you played it on the violin?” asked John, by this point astounded.

“Well, that’s what I was trying to do, but I couldn’t figure out how. I’ve always been able to play my feelings, I’ve always-“

“Sherlock-“ said John, stopping him, “It was beautiful.”

“It started out as Summer. I needed to just play something, and I know the four seasons so well that my thoughts were able to wander, and I suppose I subconsciously changed it.”

“You know all Four Seasons so well that you don’t have to think about it?”

“I have been playing violin since I was eight, John,” Sherlock said like it was obvious, which of course it was to him.

“Really? I knew you had been playing since you were young, but I figured you had started in your teens, or-“

“I’ve never told you that?”

“No,” said John.

“Oh. Well, my parents wanted me to be ‘cultured’ or something,” said Sherlock, “anyway, I learned the Four Seasons quite early, and they’re my go-to songs, really. Depending on my mood. Sometimes I just need to play _something._ So I play one of the four seasons.”

“Sherlock-“ said John, “I-“ he stopped, realizing that he didn’t know what he was going to say, “You were thinking about me? That music- the song you were playing- that was your feelings about me?”

“It is much more complex than that-“ Sherlock said, but stopped at the look John was giving him, one of admiration and also of threat, “But simply put? Yes,” Sherlock didn’t wait to gauge John’s reaction before continuing, “That song was- is- how I feel about you.”

“Wow,” said John, awestruck, “I wish I knew a way I could express my feelings like that. But I only have words.”

“But John, your words are amazing. You explain things so well-”

”I’m just boring and normal,” interrupted John.

Sherlock sighed, “You’re not. Do you think that I, Sherlock Holmes, could think all that” he motioned toward the violin that he had placed on the chair beside him to free his hands, “about someone boring and normal? John, you’re extraordinary.”

John smiled. He walked towards Sherlock, looking into his eyes with a shy smile. Sherlock’s heart started beating, thinking that maybe John was going to kiss him. Was this the moment? But John just hugged him. Although John had never hugged him before. It felt- strong and loving. Sherlock realized that nobody had ever hugged him. _Really_ hugged him. His parents had hugged him in passing, kissed him on the top of the head, but he had never had anyone hug him to show affection, to be near him. Sherlock liked it. He tentatively put his arms around John’s back, over his shoulders, and felt John’s body shake with slight laughter at the move. John pulled away, Sherlock reluctantly allowing it. 

“Good night, Sherlock,” said John, “Sleep well, yeah? Stop letting thoughts of me keep you up at night,” John laughed, “Or at least find comfort in the fact that thoughts of you are keeping _me_ up,” and John left.

Sherlock stood there, next to his armchair with a violin bow in his hand. He just stood there and processed for what felt like an hour. Then he slowly put the violin back in its case, lovingly loosened the bow and placed that back as well. “Thank you,” he whispered, laying his hand on the closed case, “Thank you for helping me talk to John.”


	9. Murderous Dancing Men

Sherlock and John sat side by side on the train as it sped underground. They had found two seats next to each other in a row of six sideways-facing seats. Unfortunately, someone had brought a child and the child was attempting to sit next to his mother instead of on her lap and John and Sherlock had been forced so close together their thighs were touching. Sherlock seemed to have taken no notice of this fact, however, and was still focusing on the pad of paper with the figures on it that he had brought along. 

John, on the other hand, was hyperaware of every touch. He didn’t have anything else to do on the long ride to North London, where Mr. Cubitt lived, and John desperately wanted to grab Sherlock’s hand. He wished he had brought a book or something to distract him from the burn of Sherlock’s thigh against his. Actually, it kind of hurt. Sherlock was very bony. John decided to do something about the tension. “Sherlock, you might as well just sit in my lap,” he laughed.

“I don’t think that would do wonders for your leg, John,” said Sherlock, not looking up and entirely missing the awkward air that was so thick John felt as if he shouldn’t be able to breathe.

“Sherlock,” said John, “you do realize our thighs are touching, right?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” asked Sherlock.

John sighed. He really wasn’t going to make Sherlock understand, was he? “Are you using both your hands right now?” He asked, “You don’t seem to be using your right hand. You haven’t even brought a pen with you. Would you mind if I used it?”

“What would you use my hand for?”

“Sherlock, I just want to hold your hand. You are my boyfriend and we are sitting very close together on the tube,” John burst out.

Everyone in the car looked at the pair momentarily, then went back to whatever they were doing. “Congratulations, dear,” said an old lady who was sitting across the aisle.

“No need to shout, John. Or broadcast our relationship to the entire train,” said Sherlock, taking John’s hand roughly.

John sighed, blushing slightly at his outburst and adjusted his hand in Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock went back to his pad of paper, bringing John’s hand with his when he needed to look at the next page. John sighed and tried to figure out the occupations of all the people in the car. He wasn’t doing very well. He didn’t expect himself to, he was just practicing and trying to occupy himself. It was what Sherlock would be doing if he was in that position.

“Sherlock?” John asked after a while. Their hands were still entwined and comfortably resting on Sherlock’s knee, “Why are we going to Mr. Cubitt’s house anyway?”

“I believe I have found the culprit,” informed Sherlock, “Also, I have decoded the messages. He found more, this time on his shed in spray paint.”

“So definitely not a kid, then.”

“No, John,” laughed Sherlock, “I don’t think a young child could paint that steadily. Anyways, there is now a sufficient amount of data to decrypt the code.”

“So you know what the stick figures mean, then?”

“Of course I do,” said Sherlock, “Between the ones drawn in chalk on his shed, the ones that appeared in paint the next day, and the next note in their mailbox, there’s plenty to be going on. Not to mention that he stayed up all night last night waiting for the boy only to get stopped by his wife. But he found more figures, and that solidified my knowledge. I believe Mr. Cubitt may be in some danger, and his wife definitely is.”

* * *

Once they finally got off the tube, Sherlock hailed a cab for the remainder of the journey, upon telling the driver the adress, he replied, “Ah, are you detectives, then?”

“Why would we be detectives?” asked Sherlock, interested.

“Well, there’s been a murder there, hasn’t there,” said the cabbie, “The lady, Elsie Cubitt. She shot her husband then herself! On the verge of death, she is.”

“In that case, please hurry,” said Sherlock and sat back in the back seat. He took John’s hand and stayed eerily still until they got to their destination, where he shot into action. 

Lestrade was at the door, and Sherlock walked right past him without awknowledging him, confusing Lestrade greatly and forcing John to deal with the aftermath, “What are you two doing here, then?”

“We were coming anyway. Sherlock knew there was danger, apparently we’re too late. Excuse me, I have to-“ John gestured up the staircase Sherlock had disappeared up.

Going up the staircase, he heard Sherlock’s annoyed voice saying, “You haven’t done anything stupid like moving anything, have you, Anderson?”

“We moved Mrs. Cubitt to the hospital as she was in critical condition, but no. Other than that we haven’t moved anything. What are you doing here, anyway? How did you find out about this? It’s barely been half an hour!”

“I was coming anyway,” dismissed Sherlock, and, noticing that John had come into the room followed by Lestrade, asked, “Who called you?”

“The neighbor next door, Ms. Saunders. She heard shots and called us immediately. She’s in the front garden if you’d like to speak to her.”

“Yes. Thank you. First, though, where is the weapon?” asked Sherlock. Anderson pointed to a desk in the corner of the room. Sherlock ran over to it and picked up the gun that sat upon it, emptying its barrel, “Yes. Three bullets have been fired. Just as I thought.”

“What?” asked Lestrade, “How did you know that?”

“You may want to check her purse as well. I’m off to speak to Ms. Saunders,” and Sherlock was gone.

“How does he know so much?” asked Lestrade, turning to John for an answer, “and we already looked in her purse. She had three hundred pounds cash.”

“I’m as confused as you are, except that Mr. Cubitt has been emailing with Sherlock all week. That’s how he knew to come here,” said John, smiling at Lestrade and taking off after Sherlock.

“Could it have been two shots fired at the same time?” John heard Sherlock ask as he approached.

“I guess it could’ve been,” said a young woman, “It woke me up, so it must have been quite loud. I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.”

“Excellent! Thank you,” said Sherlock, turning around and noticing John in the doorway of the house, “John! Good. Could you find someone to deliver me a note please?”

“Where to?” asked John, already poised to go.

“Only a block down,” said Sherlock, “To Abe Slaney. He’s an american gentleman who has taken up lodgings in number 431 on Elrige Street.”

John found a young police intern who was willing to run down and deliver the note John was holding as long as John assured him it was essential to the case. John hoped it was. He went back downstairs, and found Sherlock and Lestrade in the living room.

“Ah, John. Is the note being delivered?” asked Sherlock. John nodded, so he continued on, “come, sit. I was just explaining the dancing men to Lestrade,” and John sat, looking over at the notepad Sherlock had been studying the whole way there.

Sherlock explained how he had decoded the stick figures, and wrote out the whole alphabet with their english equivalent letters below the figures. He then showed them two of the notes, the first reading, _“Am Here Abe Slaney”_ from which Sherlock had apparently discovered that there was an american man involved and had contacted someone he knew in the NYPD. (Wilson Hargreave, as John had found out when Lestrade had complained that Sherlock had a contact in the NYPD that he didn’t know about.) The second note Sherlock showed them translated to _“Elsie prepare to meet thy god”_ Elsie being the name of Mr. Cubitt’s wife. “That was when I immediately came here with John,” explained Sherlock.

“And why did you send this man a note?” asked John.

“So he will come here and we can arrest him. He is a very dangerous criminal from Chicago.”

“And why would he come?” asked Lestrade.

“I asked him to,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade sighed, recognizing that that was as much explanation as he was going to get from Sherlock. “So, I assume we should be ready with handcuffs for when he arrives?” he asked.

“Most definitely,” said Sherlock.

Only five minutes later, Slaney had come to the door and been handcuffed. He was now sitting in the living room with Lestrade and Sherlock across from him and police at all the doors.

“So. You’ve got me. I only came here in reference to a note from Mrs. Elsie Cubitt,” the man said.

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Cubitt is in the hospital. She is on the verge of death. Her husband is dead,” said Sherlock in his usual detached manner.

“WHAT?” asked Abe Slaney in shock, “Who would hurt Elsie?” upon noticing the look he was getting from Lestrade and several other people in the room, he said, “I would never hurt her! There was never anyone who loved someone as much as I loved Elsie! But this man, Cubitt. He stole her away from me.”

“She may have loved you in America, but she fled when she found out your true nature,” said Sherlock, “that you were a criminal in one of the most infamous gangs of Chicago. Instead of letting her go, you followed her and stalked her until her husband was dead and you drove her to suicide.”

Slaney was sitting in an armchair with his head down, taking in the information, “who wrote the note if Elsie’s in the hospital? We’re the only ones who know the code.”

“What one man can invent, another can decipher,” said Sherlock.

The man nodded, “I admit to having shot her husband, but I did nothing to Elsie,” he said. 

“I hope you are aware that you have caused her to be a suspect in this case.”

“No! She did nothing to harm her husband. That was all me. He has stolen what should rightfully be mine,” the man spat.

“Well, that will be used against you. Now, I assume you are to be carted off to Scotland Yard where someone will be communicating with the Chicago police. Also, you should know that women are not property, and you should never consider them so. That may be one of the reasons Mrs. Cubitt was so afraid of you,” said Sherlock, standing and walking out of the rooom.

John excused himself, grabbing Sherlock’s pad of paper that was still on the table and rushing after him. The two repeated their tube journey, this time with less outbursts and more hand holding.

* * *

“John?” asked Sherlock, “would you like to translate one of these notes of dancing men?”

“Why?” asked John. He was tired and wanted to sleep.

“I just want to test how well you are at retaining things,” Sherlock slid the pad of paper and a pen across the table to where John was sitting.

“Alright,” said John, turning his attention to the pad of paper, on the top of which was written the alphabet in dancing men that Sherlock had written for his and Lestrade’s benefit, “Where’s this message that needs translating?” he asked.

“On the next sheet,” said Sherlock, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Okay,” John flipped the page up and saw a horde of stick figures. He started with the letter A as shown on the previous page, flipping back and forth. By the time he got to ‘E’, Sherlock sighed in exasperation and walked around the table to stand behind his shoulder.

“That- That’s an H,” said Sherlock, pointing to the third figure in the message, “See if you can infer any of the other letters from that.”

John wrote ‘H’ below the figure. It accompanied a solitary ‘E’ in the message. There were no spaces in the message, punctuation seemed to be implied, “Sherlock, I can’t figure out what this says with just two letters. Can I finish this myself? I do like puzzles, even if I don’t always finish them in ten seconds like you do.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, going back to sit in his place at the table, holding his mug of tea on the table with both hands and keeping his eyes on John the entire time he was decoding.

It was slow going. There were not very many of any one letter in the message. The only letter being repeated was ‘O’, used three times. Finally, John got to the point at which he found himself missing two letters. The message read “JOHNILO_E_OU” and John had an inkling of what it said.

“So. No punctuation in this then,” said John, looking up at Sherlock with only his eyes, keeping his face aimed down towards the page.

“There’s a comma after ‘John’” said Sherlock, “although I really don’t see why you find it necessary to know that. It is quite obvious.”

“Sherlock,” John laughed, “I’m two letters away. And I think I know what they are,” he stood up form the table, taking his mug and grabbing Sherlock’s on his way to the kitchen. He started washing them, abandoning the conversation and leaving Sherlock anxious. 

Sherlock snuck over to the other side of the table to see what John had deciphered so far, and he couldn’t figure out why John hadn’t said anything yet. Unfortunately, just Sherlock’s luck, John came back into the room at the moment Sherlock was standing over the pad of paper. He laughed, then continued to walk through the room, heading up to his bedroom for some reason.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, bewildered. He hadn’t moved when John came back two minutes later and said, “By the way, Sherlock, I love you too.”


	10. Culmination of an Agreement

“Oh. Victor Trevor’s alive,” said Sherlock, looking at his computer screen. “Good to see he stretched beyond his father’s reputation.”

“Sherlock, I do have eyes too.”

“Hmm?” asked Sherlock, who had been sitting at the table while John was on the sofa, both on their computers.

“I can see that your computer isn’t even on.”accused John, “Just tell me the end of the story already,” and he closed his own computer and put it onto the coffee table in front of him. “But do hurry. I’d like to make some tea.”

“I was in the waiting room in the hospital, Victor was speaking to the doctors, gathering his fathers’ belongings…”

“Yeah. He came back with a note and you took it. You got that far.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he couldn’t bear to read the note, understandably so, his father had just died, so I read it aloud for him.”

“He may have expected and probably wanted you to read it silently first, but okay. That’s displaying at least a small amount of tact. Go on,” said John.

Sherlock scowled at John’s insult and went on, “I was able to scan the letter into my computer. It has helped me on various occasions,” Sherlock opened his computer and pulled up a document that was fuzzy. It was a piece of paper with scrawling letters on it that had been scanned. John moved to stand behind him, reading over Sherlock’s shoulder curiously. “It reads, _‘Dear Victor, I hope you don’t think less of me after reading this. I am still your father, I am still the same man. But I was a different man in University.’”_

“That doesn’t bode well” John interrupted.

“Let me read, please, John,” said Sherlock impatiently, turning back to the document.

“Fine. I’ll make tea,” said John, departing from his place behind Sherlock and traveling to the kitchen, filling a kettle with water and busying himself with the sacred ritual of preparing tea.

“Good. _‘I was at my friend Gloria’s house. She had a keg of beer that she’d been saving in her closet. Now, there were four of us. Me, a boy we called Hudson who was a year younger than us, Gloria, and her boyfriend Beddoes. Within three hours, we had finished the keg.’”_

“Three hours?” exclaimed John, “They must have been smashed out of their minds!”

Sherlock glared at John and continued reading, _“’We were laughing and making stupid decisions among ourselves. But then Hudson brought up his student loans. We all had student loans that were mounting tremendously. I jokingly said that we should rob a bank,’”_ at this point, John raised his eyebrows, seeing some semblance of what was coming, _“’Gloria gasped and told us that we should actually do it. We discussed it all, even found the nearest bank. Beddoes knew how to pick locks and we were all game! Well, except for Hudson. He ended up going home, swearing not to tell.’”_

“It should have stopped there,” John warned no one, as at this point just standing in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil.

“Well, it didn’t. _‘We all figured he would forget in the morning, or thinkk we hadn’t actually gone through with it. Well, Beddoes, Gloria, and I did it. We put on black outfits and walked up to the nearest bank. Beddoes picked the lock on the front door with surprising ease, and the three of us went in.’_ Can you see where this is going?” asked Sherlock.

“Not well,” said John, sighing.

“No. Not well at all,” agreed Sherlock, then continued, _”’Gloria looked around a corner first, then we heard a commotion. There was someone there! All three of us immediately started running. We didn’t want to be caught! We all had hoods over our faces, so we were confident that the man would not have been able to identify us, but we still did not want him to catch us.’”_

“Well, the hoods were convenient,” remarked John, now pouring the water into mugs.

_“’By the time we got out the door, we glanced back, and noticed that he had a gun! Immediately, Beddoes and I took off to the right, which was the location of both our homes. Gloria turned to the left, in the direction of hers. Beddoes and I figured that the man would assume the two of us as the major culprits and leave Gloria. But the man followed Gloria. Being drunk, we didn’t comprehend that Gloria was in life- threatening danger until we reached my home, which was closer. But at that point we were tired and drunk and in no fit state to go out running again. Let alone at midnight. The next morning, we saw in the paper that a girl had been caught robbing the local bank and had been killed in pursuit. Her identity remained classified, but it said that two accomplices had been seen fleeing the scene and if anyone had any information, the police would appreciate it.’”_

“They didn’t confess, did they? That probably would have been the smart thing to do. But, seeing as Hudson showed up at Trevor’s door years later, I assume the girl in the article was Gloria?” said John, picking up two mugs from the counter.

“Good job, John! Your skills in deduction have improved!” said Sherlock, impressed, _“’the two accomplices were never found, but we did find out that the girl that paper had referenced was, indeed, Gloria. Hudson had figured it out, too. But we were all so stunned that nobody wanted to tell the authorities. Hudson drifted apart from us over the years, but he never forgave us for actually trying to rob the bank and getting Gloria killed.’ Do you see where this is going?” asked Sherlock, and, not waiting for an answer, continued, “’The man staying with us this last month was the same Hudson from this story. Beddoes and I had agreed to never give Hudson reason to tell anyone what we had done. And that was why I was putting up with everything he was doing. You have been rude to him, which is my fault, I should have said something, but now he is going to see if Beddoes will indulge him in the same way, and I fear this will end badly. I am writing this note so that you will not find out from a third party. My son, please don’t think less of me because I have been responsible for death. I regret the decision I made that night. Please understand that. I regret that decision so much and I will never forget my friend Gloria Scott, to whom I did tremendous wrong. I remain, and always will, Your Father.’_ You see now,” said Sherlock, “Why Victor did not return to school. I do not know what he did, I only know that the next fall, he wasn’t at school, and I decided to try to solve all the crimes I could so as to prevent something like this from happening again. What a horrendous thing! The authorities should have figured it out. Why had they not questioned Gloria’s friends? This is how I became a consulting detective. To make sure the Police were not as stupid now as they were then,” finished Sherlock.

“You done yet?” asked John.

“Yes. That is the end,” said Sherlock, closing first the document, then his computer with finality.

“Good,” said John, “Here’s some tea,” John put down one of the mugs he was carrying in front of Sherlock.

“You made me some too? Thank you,” said Sherlock.

“I always make you tea. And I always will,” said John, then bent down and kissed Sherlock on the lips.

“You kissed me!” said Sherlock, surprised.

“Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” said John, smiling.

“Now you have to-“ Sherlock began excitedly.

“Move into your room?” asked John, “Yeah. I’ve been getting a lot of backaches recently. I think I could use a better mattress. I suppose yours will have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story!  
> And thanks to [Prospero](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prospero/pseuds/Prospero) and [RussianWolf7](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWolf7/pseuds/RussianWolf7) for encouraging me and listening to me rant while I wrote it :)  
> Also thanks to [programmergeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/programmergeek/pseuds/programmergeek) for the kudos and review!


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